


Vanilla Ice Cream

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pray for Sam, Soft Dean Winchester, he's so tired of these idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26570251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: The first time Castiel tries ice cream, he isn’t as surprised as Dean had hoped.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	Vanilla Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> [Continuation of](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26065402/chapters/64776250)

The first time Castiel tries ice cream, he isn’t as surprised as Dean had hoped.

It’s a plain vanilla cone, ridiculously overpriced but wonderfully chilled — not that temperature really mattered to Castiel, but the aesthetic was surely appreciated — from the truck Dean had impulsively decided to make a detour to during lunch. He’d blindly shoved the cone out in Castiel’s direction while he plopped himself down on the wooden picnic table bench next to the vigilant angel, eyes resolutely fixated on the juicy burger Sam had ordered for him. Sam, already chowin’ down on his rabbit food, is thankfully too busy chewing to comment anything, although he _does_ give a strangled cough before ducking away from the table to hack up a lung. (Not literally, of course. Sam’s perfectly fine, only with a good chunk of lettuce in his windpipe.)

When Dean dares a quick glance, Castiel’s observing the creamy swirl of the ice cream with something close to suspicion in his blue eyes. Too keyed up for laughter, Dean pointedly gestures it at Castiel — _for you_ — and watches as those blue eyes widen slightly.

“Oh,” Castiel murmurs. Slowly, gingerly, he accepts the offering, closing his hand around the bottom of the cone while Dean lets it go. Their fingers brush, and Dean desperately pretends the added heat in his cheeks is from the summer weather. “Thank you, Dean.”

 _Hm,_ Dean grunts. It’s like he’d suddenly reverted back through just about all of evolution and landed in caveman times. _Real smooth, dude, real smooth._

And precisely because Dean Winchester is pretty much as smooth as crunchy peanut butter, he’s just about holding his breath — burger forgotten in front of him — while Castiel takes his first, delicate nibble of ice cream. Because _of course_ Castiel, exalted angel of the Lord, is an ice cream biter. Of course he is.

Brow furrowing gently, Castiel tilts his head a few degrees to the right (towards Dean’s left shoulder — not that Dean’s keeping track or anything, okay) as he considers the taste. After a pause long enough to make Dean nervous, Castiel’s constipated concentration expression smooths out and he licks his lips.

“Yeah? You like that?”

Sam chokes on his smoothie.

Dean ignores his brother, because although Castiel’s smile is so small it might well not exist, the corners of his eyes crinkle in a manifestation of his happiness.

“This is” — Castiel’s tongue peeks out once again and _shit,_ Dean wants to feel it against his own — “enjoyable, yes.”

The breath Dean didn’t know he’d been holding, waiting for Castiel’s verdict, exits him in a long exhale. “It’s good? Not too many molecules?”

Castiel takes another small, neat bite. It’s absurd, how prim he is, sitting on a weather-worn picnic table bench with his back straight as an arrow, clad in his ill fitting suit and baggy trench coat and disheveled, backward knotted tie, taking tidy little nibbles of ordinary vanilla ice cream. He looks up at Dean, no possible brain freeze in sight, and solemnly declares, “I like these molecules.”

"Good," Dean says, turning back to his burger.

Sam, poking away at his phone, remains mercifully silent.

+

_He’s gotta be usin’ mojo to keep the thing from melting, right?_

"Would you like some?"

Flushing guiltily, Dean blinks — clearly he’s only about as subtle as the moon’s crater-filled surface — and quickly glances away from Castiel’s mouth. “No,” he croaks. Winces. Clears his throat and tries again. “Nah, buddy, s’all yours.”

Castiel watches him for a long moment, fingers curled gently around the white napkin wrapped base of the cone.

As usual, Dean’s the first to look away. He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing at the sweat he feels there. Christ, it sucks having to wear the full fed monkey suit getup in the peak of summer. “Can get myself one, Cas.”

A beat of hesitation later, Dean stumbles up and away from the table; he knocks his knee against the sturdy wood hard enough to punch a low hiss of pain from his lungs, but he grits his teeth and soldiers on. If anything, he’s stubborn. The weight of Castiel’s gaze settles heavy but familiar at his back as he makes his way to the ice cream truck, resolutely not allowing himself to limp in the slightest despite the bruise he could already feel blooming on his kneecap.

Dean orders two cones identical to the one he’d given Castiel and returns to the table with a confident swagger to his stride, grinning in the face of Sam’s surprise when Dean holds one out toward his brother.

“Thanks,” Sam mumbles, a little grateful and a lot bewildered.

Humming a quiet, satisfied note, Dean moves back to his seat next to Castiel. Already, the heat is inflicting its destruction on the frozen treat, its soft swirling hill drooping at the edges as the ice cream begins melting. Dean despises having his hands all sticky, so he sets about lapping up the ice cream before it starts dripping, glad for a temporary relief from the stifling warmth of the afternoon.

“Dean.”

“Hm?” Dean gets in one more broad lick of his ice cream. Then, licking his lips absently, he lifts his head. “What’s up, Cas?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, blue eyed gaze steady on Dean’s face. The napkin from his finished — when did that happen — ice cream cone sits perfectly folded on the table.

Dean frowns quizzically. Is the angel about to ask about the proper method of consumption for ice cream? Something about the case? Or maybe… _Oh crap, did he have something on his face?_

“Do I—”

The rest of Dean’s question abruptly and vehemently launches itself into the void when Castiel reaches out, calm and purposeful, to drag the pad of his thumb down the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean’s brain stutters and stalls, tripping over right into static at the sight of Castiel bringing the same thumb up to his own mouth — _without breaking eye contact, what the fuck_ — and _lick._

See, Dean likes being clean. Taking showers, washing Baby, tidying his room — they’re all things he could arguably say he enjoys doing, things that often help him relax and clear his head. But as someone who has a lifestyle of hunting monsters, he’s become more than acquainted with dirt under his nails, blood coating his hands, all kinds of dust and mud (and often, gore) on his clothes. Perhaps it’s all that motivating his urge to be clean, like some twisted, monstrous version of Macbeth’s wife; perhaps he too, has a gruesome death in his future, a karma for all the blood he’s spilled. Gloomy thoughts of his impending demise aside, Dean would usually _despise_ having anyone’s hands near his mouth. Seriously, with all the places hands get? No thanks.

And yet. He knows those hands see their fair share of dirt and blood. He knows they’re only about as clean as his own. He _knows,_ and yet he can’t mind as much as he should. Not because he knows those hands belong to an _angel of the Lord,_ not because they belong to something far holier than someone as filthy as he should ever have the luck of meeting. No, not any of it. Because those hands belong to _Cas:_ determined, strong-willed Cas, so earnest and so giving, so _kind_ despite how much he’s been used like he’s only a tool. Cas, always willing to bleed for reasons he shouldn’t need to be spilling his own blood for, always there with just a call. Cas, who laid waste to his own wings to save a damned man.

How is Dean’s little mind supposed to comprehend the magnitude of Castiel’s kindness? Those battle worn hands, they’ve constantly given, selflessly—

“Dean,” Castiel says, his hand warm — _so warm, so gentle_ — when he closes it around Dean’s, “it’s melting.”

Dean flinches back, startled.

At the other side of the table, Sam bites through his ice cream cone, _loudly._

Castiel doesn’t blink. Slowly, he glances down at the cone trapped between their hands.

Dean lets it go, and Castiel blinks. His eyes ask the question he doesn’t voice.

Swallowing, Dean nods. “Go for it. Good molecules, yeah?”


End file.
